Tag Archives: moving sucks

Move It: 2017 Edition

Back when all my worldly possessions amounted to a twin bed, a stack of CDs and a Mr. Coffee, I thought moving was fun. These days, things are a little different. With five bicycles, three grills and a small collection of non-Ikea, grown-up furniture, changing addresses is a stress-inducing hypothetical endeavor. Add a pretty lady, a big black dog and their stuff to the mix, and the subject of relocation is enough to inspire visions of a massive bonfire fueled by unnecessary household goods.

So when the landlord’s real estate sign went up in our yard back in June—roughly eight months after we moved in—the task before us seemed daunting. The Craigslist search. The big dog discussion. The you-want-how-much-for-the-deposit shock factor. The packing. The truck. The loading and unloading. But we did it. Mission accomplished. With a little help from a friend*. Now, as we dig our way out of the boxes, we’re up against the real-life limitations of physical space. We’ve stacked, stored, reconsidered and rearranged. I gave up on recovering the tape measure two weeks ago. I’ve come to terms with the idea of never owning a couch again. I hate shoes (other than the ones on my feet). Extra shirts seems extravagant. I find myself questioning why anyone would need more than two forks. All the things I’ve loved before are clutter and clutter is the enemy!

But one must remain calm. It’s the only option a relatively sane person has. In the end, we’re lucky to have a roof over our heads, a wonderful new neighborhood just beyond our front door and, of course, a magical sunflower watching over the entire process. Without the sunflower, I’m pretty sure the above mentioned bonfire would’ve been the first and only thing on my agenda.


Cut from my lady’s garden at our previous address, this sunflower has kept me grounded.

* I hired a mover who happens to be a nice guy and by the end of the process I considered him a friend

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Been there, done that.

Someone stares blankly as a stream of cars race down San Francisco’s 101 south in the middle of the night.

Weary from a long day at work, an apartment dweller watches from the small sun porch as the train pulls into the Granville station on Chicago’s Red Line.

A pensive tenant in Madison walks by the thermostat in the hallway and contemplates the impending cold weather.

In Lawrence, Kansas an irritated homeowner stands in the kitchen window as a rowdy frat boy leaves a frothy mix of Chipotle and Bud Light all over the trunk of the big Maple tree that grows in the middle of the yard.

They’re all places I’ve called home. All scenes or situations that unfolded in my life. Today, as I get to know the idiosyncrasies of my new apartment, I think fondly of all the addresses in my past.

Happy Friday. May your keys work, your sinks drain and your lives continue to evolve.

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No storage.

Funny how dreams can be so vivid, yet so quickly forgotten. But I suppose most things in life eventually run their course and wind up on a truck to be dumped in a remote area or living on the dusty, disorganized shelves of the local Salvation Army.

As checklists and change-of-address forms once again dominate my world, it seems only natural to question all the work that goes into temporary states. Momentary lapses of perceived happiness. So here we are.

This house is not a home anymore and I’m glad to say goodbye. The life that unfolded here was tangled and messy. But I sure am going to miss the garage.

On that note, enjoy your weekend—especially if you’re not packing. And if by some strange coincidence you are packing, try to make the most of that as well. As a recently widowed woman told me a few days back, “new beginnings are good.”

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